by Merry Jones
‘How old is she?’
‘Fourteen months.’
‘Only? She’s agile for fourteen months. And so adorable.’ The third woman grinned.
‘Look at those curls!’ The first woman cooed.
‘And a charmer.’ The second one beamed. ‘Look at the twinkle in her eyes.’
Hagit mumbled something; her frown deepened. ‘She’s a baby. Nothing special.’ She grabbed Chloe’s hand and led her away.
Nothing special? Harper bristled at the remark, made an awkward, apologetic shrug and wished the ladies a good day. Then she chased after Chloe, who’d pulled her hand from Hagit’s and sped off again across the courtyard, shrieking.
Harper caught up, her eyes never drifting from her child. Hagit had been approved by Israeli security, but Harper had never had a babysitter before, hadn’t trusted anyone but Hank to watch the baby when she wasn’t there. Consequently, Chloe had spent much of her first year in a sling attached to Harper’s body, going mostly everywhere with her. But now, Chloe was becoming a little girl. She could walk, was starting to talk. She needed more independence, more people in her life. Hagit provided a first step in that direction. So Harper forced herself to let Hagit help with Chloe, but she watched them like a mama lion, lurking nearby.
When Chloe tumbled again, this time reaching for a stray cat, Harper ran over and scooped her up. She fastened the wiggly twenty-two-pound bundle into her sling, trying to get her to hold still long enough to tie it. Soon, Chloe would be too big for this mode of transportation, but for now, it offered a means of control.
Hagit watched, arms crossed, still frowning.
‘What?’ Harper eyed her.
‘What do you mean, “what”? Those women. Why did you allow that?’
‘Allow what?’ Harper had no idea.
Hagit lowered her voice, looked around. ‘The Evil Eye.’
Harper tilted her head. The what?
‘They drew its attention to the baby.’
Harper shook her head. ‘Sorry. I don’t know what—’
‘You heard them. Saying she’s beautiful and a genius and so on? Kenahara. Harper, the Evil Eye is always watching. When attention goes to someone, it goes, too. It’s dangerous to say a child is pretty or clever or somehow better than the rest. Why would you let them say such things, inviting trouble? You have to say a Kenahara.’
‘A what?’
‘Kenahara. It means “No Evil Eye”.’
Harper shook her head. ‘Wait, you’re saying it’s wrong to call a baby pretty?’
‘Not just a baby. And not just pretty. You should never point out good luck or success. Attention like that – praise like that? It’s like a phone call to the Evil Eye – you might as well send him an invitation. Ask him for trouble. Come with me. Hurry. There’s still time.’ Hagit grabbed Harper’s arm and, rearranging the diaper bag on her shoulder, led her into the shuk.
The light changed as soon as they stepped inside. And so did the mood. The solemnity and awe that surrounded the Wall vanished. Suddenly they were in a teeming bazaar, closed into a dimly lit narrow corridor streaming with people. On all sides were overstocked booths, their goods spilling into the passageway. Vendors with dark shiny eyes beckoned and called, ‘Come and look.’ ‘See what I have for you.’
The air was hot, dense. Crowded with smells: flowers, sweat, incense, spices. The cologne of a passer-by. Something pungent. Something decaying. And there was such noise – a steady undercurrent of shuffling and voices, bits of conversations in many languages. Commotion.
Harper moved along, Chloe snug against her in the sling, Hagit’s hand gripping her elbow. She had a feeling of being caught in a current, being swept along. And her senses were on high alert, as if the waters held danger.
But Hagit seemed unfazed. She led them along, turned into one alleyway, then another. Harper fought waves of claustrophobia, glimpsing displays of motley wares – clothing and trinkets, hookahs and pashminas, pomegranates and rugs. Shoes and flowers. Roasted nuts.
‘Mama. Go.’ Chloe kicked Harper’s sides, a rider spurring on a horse.
Hagit finally stopped at a booth displaying finer items: watches, silver and gold jewelry. Leaving Harper at the entrance, she stepped inside, stood at a display case. The vendor greeted her, offering help.
Hagit peered into the case and pointed. ‘That one. And that one.’
‘Certainly, you have excellent taste.’ The salesman smiled, unlocked the case. Took out two necklaces with hand-shaped pendants, one tiny enough for a small child’s neck.
Hagit said something in another language – Hebrew or Arabic, Harper wasn’t sure. The man looked shocked and offended; he replied, shaking his head, no. An argument ensued. Eventually, Hagit put the necklaces down and turned to leave; the vendor grumbled and waved her back; Hagit took out her wallet.
‘Mama.’ Chloe kept kicking. ‘Down.’
‘Not now,’ Harper said. ‘It’s too crowded.’
‘DOWN.’ The word was loud and shrill, and delivered to Harper’s ears with simultaneous heels to the hips. Chloe had definitely outgrown the sling. Time for a stroller.
‘Stop kicking.’ Harper grabbed Chloe’s feet, pictured herself with two matching heel-shaped bruises. She stepped out of the shop, looking up the aisle for a booth that sold strollers, but Hagit came back and fastened a chain around Chloe’s neck.
‘Wear this always.’ She stood behind Harper, talking to Chloe.
‘What is it?’ Harper looked over her shoulder, couldn’t see.
Hagit held up the larger one, showing Harper a gold, not inexpensive, charm before hanging it around her neck.
‘These are hamsas,’ Hagit explained as she fastened the chain. ‘Protection.’
Protection? ‘Good-luck charms?’
‘No. Not to bring good luck. Just to keep away bad.’ Hagit pulled her away from the booth, back into the crowd.
Harper went along, fingered the charm, its hand-shaped woven gold. Even if it were just a superstitious symbol, it was a generous gift. ‘Thank you, Hagit. You shouldn’t buy us—’
‘Wearing the five fingers will hold off the Evil Eye. Wearing the hamsa, plus saying Kenahara – say it.’ She stopped walking and faced Harper, waiting. Blocking the passageway.
People bumped into them. Pushed their way past.
‘Kenahara,’ Hagit repeated. ‘Say it.’
Chloe kicked, impatient.
‘Kenahara.’ Harper obeyed, eager for Hagit to lead them out of the shuk.
‘Good. The world is full of evil, Harper. Believe me. You have to take whatever precautions you can.’ She held up the ornate, ancient-looking hamsa around her own neck. ‘Now, come this way.’ She led them round a corner into another narrow but less crowded corridor, along another aisle of booths that all looked the same.
Somewhere up ahead, a man was yelling in English.
‘It’s crap!’
As they moved along, the voice got louder.
‘You overcharged me . . . refund my credit card . . .’
Harper strained to see who was yelling, saw a red-faced, balding man in khaki shorts and a sweat-stained green polo shirt, surrounded by Middle Eastern men.
‘. . . want my money back.’
The vendor’s voice was low, but he was shaking his head. Refusing. The other men closed in around the American, menacing.
Instinctively, Harper took a step forward, to help him.
Hagit grabbed her arm. ‘What are you doing?’
‘He’s outnumbered . . .’
‘It does not involve you.’
‘He’s an American. And he’s alone. I can’t just watch . . .’ But she stopped mid-sentence. What was she doing? Chloe was on her back. Was she really going to step into the middle of an altercation with the baby there? She held Chloe’s feet to stop them from pounding her.
Hagit was still talking. ‘. . . in the Muslim section, not my part of the shuk. Let them alone. They will work it out. He can call a secu
rity officer or a policeman if he wants.’ She pulled Harper away from the man with the complaint.
Harper turned to look back at him. He was sputtering, his face crimson. Still arguing, even as the men closed in around him.
‘He’ll be all right; don’t worry about him. Most merchants here are honest enough.’ Hagit forged through a cluster of tourists. ‘I shop here. I buy my spices and fruit. Fish. Flowers. Only one thing: here, I wouldn’t use a credit card.’
Really? ‘Because they cheat?’
Hagit tugged Harper’s hand, turned a corner. ‘Let me just say evil can dig in its roots anywhere and can take on many forms. Smart people know that. Kenahara.’
By the time evening arrived, Harper was exhausted. She’d lost a night’s sleep because of the seven-hour time change and had run around with Hagit and Chloe ever since. Chloe, however, didn’t seem the least bit tired. Harper hoped a bath would relax her but, as she sponged warm water over Chloe’s back, Chloe slapped the water, splashed and jabbered energetically.
Maybe a lullaby would help. Harper began to sing. ‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you—’
‘No!’ Chloe raised her little arms, sending water flying, drenching the front of Harper’s T-shirt. Okay, maybe Harper wasn’t the best singer, but she hadn’t thought she deserved a soaking. Enough bath time. Harper pulled the plug, lifted Chloe, wrapped her in a towel. Chloe wriggled and squirmed to get free.
‘Down, Mama. Down.’
And as soon as Harper set her on the bed to dress her, Chloe slid off and scampered through the suite, giggling.
Harper dropped onto the bed, seeing no point in chasing her. Chloe was delighting in her freedom, her new ability to scamper on two legs. Sooner or later, she’d tumble; then Harper would step in and grab her. Meantime, she sat, holding the diaper, amazed at how fast Chloe was growing, how much she’d learned in just fourteen months. Chloe ran, overtired, overactive, zooming from the bedroom into the sitting room and back. When Harper reached for her, she sped away. Finally, just as she was about to get up and give chase, Harper heard a key in the lock. Men’s voices. Thank God: Hank and Trent were back.
The moment that Hank stepped into the suite, Chloe stopped running. Her entire demeanor changed. Suddenly, she was sweet, coy. Angelic. ‘Daddy.’ She sucked three of her fingers, eyeing him.
Hank, of course, was smitten. He reached for her and swung her high into the air, kissing her tummy, squeezing her. Returning her to the bedroom and handing Chloe to Harper with a peck on the cheek. ‘Needs diaper,’ he commented, as if Harper hadn’t noticed.
Harper marveled at the way Chloe took possession of Hank, curling her little body into his arms, claiming him with her confidence. Staring at him with rapt adoration as he unbuttoned his shirt and took off his shoes. Harper grabbed the opportunity to fasten Chloe’s diaper and slip on her pajamas.
‘Trent’s here.’ Hank headed for the sitting room, stopped and looked back. ‘Hoppa. You okay?’
‘Just tired.’
‘Good.’ He picked up Chloe and stepped out the door.
Good? Never mind. He must not have been listening; must be tired, too. In the sitting room, ice clinked. Snippets of conversation floated around. They were talking about the symposium. Harper tried to listen. Chloe vied for attention, squealing and interrupting, but Trent talked over her, complaining about tensions – or was it factions? He was saying that politics shouldn’t play a part in their discussions. Hank’s opinions were harder to discern; his speech was still affected by an old brain injury, and he spoke in short phrases, his words sometimes out of order. He seemed to agree with Trent, but Harper couldn’t hear because Chloe was jabbering, then Trent said something about depletion.
Their work was fascinating. Hank and Trent were among thirty-four scientists participating in a multinational symposium on the region’s water issues – specifically, on the deterioration of the Dead Sea and the potential consequences of its drying up. As geologists, they’d joined eminent hydrologists, ecologists, other-ologists and delegates from the US, Jordan, Egypt, France, Israel, Russia, Great Britain and she wasn’t sure where else. Their task was to combine efforts and propose workable solutions for the future of the area’s water.
While Hank and Trent talked, Harper went to drain the tub. She picked up Chloe’s clothes, folded the towel. Went back to the bedroom. The men were still talking, but Chloe was oddly quiet.
‘Then what are people supposed to drink?’ Trent’s ice cubes jangled. ‘Forget the agricultural and industrial issues – we’re talking about sixty percent of Israel’s water and seventy-five percent of Jordan’s. And the Palestinians—’
‘Know that,’ or maybe, ‘No that,’ Hank interrupted, annoyed. ‘But conse. Quences are. Of salt water, Trent. De. Salination. Might con. Tami. Nate.’
‘Obviously. But damn it, something has to give. The sea is disappearing a meter a year because its source, the Jordan River, is being grossly overused. It’s depleting to the point of crisis. And you heard what Dr Habib said. His country is willing go to war over water—’
‘Must fix, Trent. But not. Ruin. Ground water. And environ—’
‘Expedience is key, Hank. Something must be done soon if not sooner. It’s not just Israel and Jordan. It’s Syria, Lebanon – the whole region is at risk.’
At risk? Over water? Harper stiffened. She’d known that water was precious in the area, but she’d had no idea how urgent the situation was. She tossed Chloe’s clothes into the laundry bag, peeled off her soaking T-shirt, pulled on a fresh one.
‘. . . Water has to come from somewhere. No one is saying that desalination is ideal; we all know the risks – environmental damage from foreign algae and minerals and so on. But, short term, I don’t think there’s an alternative—’
‘Yes, are choices—’
Harper went into the sitting room, eager to hear more. But as soon as she came in, the conversation stopped. Hank and Trent turned to her, silent. Wearing twin silly smiles.
Why had they suddenly stopped talking? Ever since the accident that had caused Hank’s aphasia, he’d welcomed her to join conversations. In fact, he often relied on Harper to help him articulate his thoughts. But now, he regarded her stiffly, as if she were intruding. And Trent was uncharacteristically mute. Normally, he wouldn’t shut up, especially when he was drinking Scotch. So what was going on?
‘Hi, Harper.’ Trent finally stood, offered a hug.
Harper returned it, noticing that Chloe was sleeping soundly in Hank’s arms.
She took a seat beside Hank on the sofa. ‘So. How were the sessions today?’
Trent said, ‘Stimulating,’ as Hank said, ‘Disappoint. Ing.’
Harper looked from one to the other. ‘Really?’
‘It’s staggering to have so many experts together.’ Trent looked at his drink. ‘Everyone’s a chief – no Indians.’
‘Us, too.’ Or two? ‘Chiefs.’
Beyond that, Hank and Trent seemed unwilling to discuss the meetings, even superficially.
‘It’s complicated.’ Trent sat on an easy chair. ‘Very delicate.’
‘Cultures,’ Hank said. ‘Countries.’
And then they were silent. Trent drank Scotch. Hank took Harper’s hand. Trent cleared his throat.
Nobody spoke.
Harper tried another topic, asked about Trent’s wife. ‘Have you talked to Vicki?’
Trent answered. ‘Yes. She’s fine.’
More silence.
‘The babysitter seems nice,’ Harper finally said.
‘Great.’ Hank nodded too much, smiled too broadly. ‘Good. To hear.’
Trent downed his drink. Hank crossed and uncrossed his arms.
‘Okay. I’m out.’ Harper stood, lifted Chloe out of Hank’s arms.
‘She’s okay. With me. Sit—’
‘I’ll put her in the crib and leave you guys alone . . .’
‘Have a good night.’ Trent hurried her along.
She frowned. ‘Can’t tell me what?’
‘We were cautioned against discussing our work with others. Even our spouses.’ Trent got up, poured himself more Scotch. ‘Only the final report is to be revealed.’
Hank finally met her eyes, looked sorry. Or worried?
Harper told them that she understood, that it was no problem, and she carried Chloe into the bedroom, hearing their conversation resume behind her.
‘So do you think Habib was just posturing? Making empty threats? Or was he serious about war?’
Harper stood beside the crib. Oh God, was that why the symposium had been sworn to secrecy? Because war was imminent? She heard the buzz of flies, bursts of rifle fire. No. Quickly, gently, she laid the baby down, covering her even as men screamed and a white flash carried her into the air. Harper felt herself fly . . .
No. She bit down on her lip, causing piercing pain that grounded her in the present. The flashback faded, but she remained shaken. She’d seen war, still bore the scars. Didn’t want to see another. And, more importantly, she didn’t want her child to. Ever. She gazed at Chloe, touched her curls, her cheek. Promised to do anything in her power to keep her safe.
Trent’s voice rose. ‘Maybe Habib’s just a bully. Threatening war gives him clout . . .’
‘True . . .’
Harper grabbed the remote, turned on the television, drowning out the voices from the next room. She didn’t want – couldn’t bear – to hear any more.
Leaning back against the pillows, Harper winced as she bent her war-damaged left leg. All the walking she and Hagit had done had strained it, plus her shoulders ached from carrying Chloe. But what a day it had been. Wandering the Old City of Jerusalem, seeing the ancient structures. History was alive here; the entire country was layered, civilization built on top of civilization. The archeologist in Harper couldn’t wait to explore, but the rest of her was spent. Thank God Chloe was finally asleep. Harper gazed through the slats of the crib, marveling at the child’s ability to sleep so soundly, untroubled, trusting that she’d be safe and taken care of.
If only Harper could be worthy of that trust. She gazed at Chloe, chest tightening, eyes filling. For the last fourteen months, every nerve of her body had been on constant alert, every muscle on duty around the clock. Even in sleep, she remained vigilant, listening. On guard. Ready to respond to any cry, any need. She doubted she’d ever truly rest again.
